Nonsense Time: An Advice Column

Extrapolated advice from celebrities without their endorsement and/or knowledge, probably.

About the Column

I spend a lot of time on my own. From approximately 8:00am to 6:00pm, I am either alone or interacting with strangers, waiting for my real, non-writer friends to finish up their work days so they can come home and play catch with me. I love this set-up. It means I don’t have to do things regular adults have to do, like own khakis, or figure out how to pay taxes (because I have no income, not because I’m trying to save a mill’ off my bill’.)

But the result of all this aloneness is a lot of nonsense time. Time spent with me laying on the floor, talking to myself until I think of something to write. Or, time spent with me sitting at my kitchen table thinking about all the so hilarious things I will say to Mindy Kaling when I finally track down her home address. “Grace, you devil, you are so hilarious.” Says Mindy Kaling. After I trespass. To me. In my head. You get the picture.

In fact, I am so used to being praised by my comedic heroes during my “work” day that I forget that I am not, in fact, the wunderkind Jim Carrey talks about incessantly at art class. Nor am I the muse for every Lonely Island rap — though I do see myself in so much of “The Wack Album”.

In summary, my grasp on reality has always been tenuous, at best, and my confidence has always been through the roof. Isolate me for most of the day, most days a week, and you get nonsense ideas like this article, in which, relying on my imagined credentials, I will serve as a celebrity medium, so to speak, imparting advice to you, from all your (well, my) most favorite celebs.

Without further ado, from my nonsense time, to you, live from LA:*

Mindy Kaling

The faking your own death checklist:

1. Make sure you don’t leave behind non-curated diaries that will reveal you have none of the hidden depths you claim you do.

2. Burn all opaque underwear so it looks like you spent your entire life swathed in candy-floss lingerie.

3. Make your death look like murder because then you may have a movie made about you.

4. Have an envelope full of tasteful nudes, strategically located in your desk drawer, so those hot detectives will remember you through a boudoir filter. One may even fall in love with you, which would be an equally cool movie.**

5. Make sure before you disappear that you remind the people you hate of all the bad things they’ve done to you so they feel terrible after you’re gone.

Never accept an “unlikely friendships” calendar

You know those calendars where the Porcupine is friends with the Goldfish, and yes that is possible and also science. Well I personally don’t care for them. Seeing things that are objectively cuter than me feels like an attack. And then being forced to look at such things for an entire calendar year? Seems like an interesting (and fast) approach to depression. A depression, mind you, which is entirely unnecessary because I am cute. These animals just have strength in numbers.

Listen, it’s basic psychology a la the cheerleader effect. One duck on its own may be cute. But put three ducks on a cow’s back and all of a sudden we are sobbing. Collectively these friendships are cuter than their individual parts. Which is probably why they are friends in the first place.

You—the consumer — are not included in the effect’s magic. You are human and probably still a six. So, if given one such calendar, chew it up and use it for the spitballs you use to win arguments with your roommates when they won’t admit they know nothing. But do not hang it on your wall. Why would you do that in your home — a place thats sole purpose is to make you look so much better than you actually are to uninformed guests?

It’s okay to reconstruct your entire face

If it is to look like Reese Witherspoon, absolutely. Do it. And then if people ask you why you look different, go with my very effective mantra:

“Deny, deny, deny!”

This mantra is highly transferrable, by the way, and is my go-to whenever I’m in a communication jam.

You don’t (really) have to like your friend’s kid

The thing about your friend having a child is that unlike other relationships in your life, you didn’t choose this one based on personality/ intelligence/ knowledge of Nora Ephron. You probably were not consulted on whether or not they should conceive, and you probably did not specifically say: “You should do that because I will love the kid forever, regardless of the fact that most kids are dumb until at least fourteen.” If you did not give verbal consent to your friend’s unprotected sex, here are your obligations for such a relationship:

1. You should remember its name at least 80% of the time. Unless your friend named it something mythical like “Pink River,” in which case you should use it as much as possible.

2. You should teach it to like The Real Housewives. Then, every time it tries to talk to you about the Water Cycle, or whatever boring nonsense they are learning about in 2nd grade, you can redirect the conversation to the merits of marrying someone as a Real Estate opportunity.

3. You don’t have to bend down for a hug when you see it. A pat on the head should be fine.

4. Use candy to Pavlov Condition it into loving you. This requires zero emotional work on your end and only about $5 a month, which you can steal back from your friend’s wallet later.

5. If your friend asks about that $5, you are allowed to blame it on the kid. Because unlike you, she does have to love it unconditionally — no matter how slippery its fingers are.

If this kid was an accident and your friend is alone and scared, you are absolutely, 100% no excuses, required not only to be obsessed with this kid, but be there four nights a week to wash behind its ears and feed it gummies.

Never let a man play the guitar for you unless he’s John Mayer

If you are asking yourself why not right now, you’re probably already a lost cause. But on the off-chance that you are under-hydrated and it has made you a bit woozy, I’m going to try and help you anyway. Because I need some karma points after shoving that woman away from a muffin I wanted this morning.

Let me paint you a picture. Fictional-but-hung Todd comes back to your place. He’s wearing a beanie — you allow it. He takes off his pants because that’s why he’s here. Then he sees that random, pink, child-sized guitar in the corner that you wore for your millennial pink “Mariachi” costume (a photo of which you were promptly slammed on twitter for, but you still look really good so it’s your LinkedIn icon). And then Todd goes: “Oh my god, babe! Let me serenade you.” Woaaah Nellie. Several warning signs here:

1. He’s looking at something other than you, who are also pantless by this point in solidarity.

2. He wants to play a toy guitar. Genuinely i.e. not for a bit.

3. The word “serenade” was used by anyone other than those accordion players at those very authentic and annoying Italian restaurants that usually have good sauce.

Alternatively, if you find that your arousal mechanism is triggered by feelings of mortification for someone else, by all means date non-successful singer-songwriters exclusively.*** You will always be wet. Otherwise, my god, don’t let him play and sing.

Are you saying right now: “But Grace, how can you tell him not to play? That’s so rude!” Okay. Okay, maybe Sharon. But do you know what — I promise — will hurt his feelings more? “Put your pants back on, that original song was awful.”

It’s cool to marry someone just because they are dying

Who doesn’t want to be a part of a tragic love-story where no one is to blame and the world will forever immortalize it as cosmic love? If 1/2 of a couple dies, everyone will immediately forget that you guys always used to fight about how you eat meat-sticks in bed. As the sole party left on Earth who may remember imperfect realities such as this, you should absolutely not remind people. Instead, draw on a wide cannon of classic fiction and craft unbelievably poignant stories about your romance that literally make the Twilight characters look like scum.

In 2018, the most sought after, exclusive, and elusive commodity is True Love. So whether or not your partner is soul-mate material, or just keeps you in wrapped-meat, if he/she is dying, you commit. All the way. Take those narrative rights and run with them to the courthouse. You’ll be so mysterious and cool after.

*Inaccurate but punchy.

**Do not pitch this without giving me credit.

***If you’re a man, height of 6’2 and over, you may also consider dating me. I humiliate myself pretty regularly. You would get a lot of action.

I give a HUGE thank you to The Mindy Project, a show that has not only made me laugh one trillion times, but has taught me, in many ways, how to make other people laugh. I owe you. Xx